Ashworth was standing too. He wasn’t sure what Vera expected from him. To follow her? To arrest Veronica Eliot? After her final words the inspector had moved surprisingly quickly. She was already in the hall close to the front door, the keys to the Land Rover in her hand.

‘I would never hurt them,’ Veronica called after her. ‘I would never hurt a child.’ But her voice was thin and unconvincing.

Ashworth left her sitting where she was.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Connie lay awake all night, thinking she’d been a fool. How had she allowed herself to be trapped like this? At first she’d thought she’d been so clever. She’d panicked, of course, when she first got the phone call. It had come early in the morning, threatening, insinuating, demanding. The voice disguised, she’d been sure of that. She’d had threatening phone calls following the publicity of Elias’s death. They’d been malicious and mindless, but not like this. Not terrifying. There’d been letters then too. In the end she’d burned them without reading them. The police had said to give the letters to them: it might be possible to prosecute the writers. But Connie hadn’t been able to bear the thought of a stranger seeing them. They might believe the dreadful accusations. This phone call had been more horrible than the letters, and Connie had taken it seriously. She’d known she had to leave Mallow Cottage. She had to take Alice and get away. She couldn’t be seen to be talking to the police.

Then Veronica had arrived. Connie hadn’t been able to tell her the truth, of course. That would have been unthinkable. She could hardly tell this respectable woman that she was running away from the police! She’d said the press were on her back and she needed to disappear for a while. They’d tracked her down, connected her to Jenny Lister’s murder. And Veronica – who had been so hostile, who had poisoned the village women with her stories – had suddenly become helpful. She’d understood the need for utter secrecy. Of course the tabloid press were ruthless and devious. Veronica had read how they searched dustbins and put taps on mobile phones. Veronica said she had a holiday home, not far away. Connie and Alice could stay there for a little while until the police had found the real murderer. It was basic and it had been empty over the winter, but she thought it would do. There was a Calor gas stove and they could stock up on supplies. She’d camped out there when she was a child and had always loved it.